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Dark Dynasty
A Struggle at Night About Five Years Ago “''Life rises when night comes down''”, used to say rowdy sailors and seafaring costumers brought in Port Tantor for business or pleasures. Trade centers tend to be at their most noisy, dangerous and exciting when sun sets and dives deep below the horizon, bringing with him some of the duties and worries that plague men during the day. Other dangers and worries come in their place, brought forth by the sweet scent of unabashed freedom, and made much more alluring by rivers of money and alcohol and prostitutes flowing under the lamps of taverns and brothels. Friends are found and lost, money is gained and squandered, lives are bet and traded all in the span of breath, by the launch of a dime or a glance given to the right or wrong people. Risks are only granted to the stupid or the audacious; the wheels of fortune would dictate the rest. Dr. Weil hated both noises and jeopardies. The Unseen Princeps recognized the need most men have for leisure and a time to went off the stress of a regulated existence, but he did not share it: in his eyes, everything needed to have structure, purpose, solidity. Fate was not a fool’s game, the drunken dance of events and people on a tune without rhythm; but a perfect, wondrous mechanism, where everything found its place and meaning. Society had to reflect that cosmic perfection as close as the limited human mind could allow. As soon as the Iron Legion took a de facto sovereignty over Port Tantor, Weil quelled the typical fracas. The urbanistic plan of the city was rewritten with a compass and a set square: streets were made either parallel or perpendicular to each other, tortuous allies made straight and narrow. Edifices in the docking districts where built with sound-proof materials, so that none of the ruckus inside was hearable a palm from the given edifice. Any would-be disturber of the public peace was soon and swiftly corrected by merciless watchers clad in grey robes. Port Tantor’s treasures had welcomed more money and traffics than ever, yet this city looked as clean, calm and quiet as a hinterland village. Vánagandr wasn’t sure if loving this newfound silence. The slow reel of the beach waves, unperturbed by the clamors of a metropolis, had a calming effect on his psyche, gently submerging the clanking movements of the transistors placed in his head, a constant companion of his. Sitting on a cliff over the sea, black as ink except for the pale glisten of the moon above, emptied his mind a bit from worries. However, a city without ruckus, laughter, tears and even screams frightened him, it felt like a perfectly embalmed corpse with only the semblance of life. Everything that his Master touched turned out like that: stronger, more efficient, yet cruelly mechanical. Still, moments of genuine peace were still too rare to be wasted on everyday horrors: as his best friend Dazang was used to say: “''nothing beats good old-fashioned meditation on a lonely beachside''”, though he would usually add “''with the company of a three ice-cream trucks, two of vegetarian hamburgers and a pool of citron juice''”. He's always been a bit of a gluttonous hippie, even when immersing himself in unreachable spiritual highs. Minus the food, the Black Wolf was content just to dip his senses in mother nature. The myriads of receptors Weil had endowed him with basked in the quiet chorus of nature- the back and forth of the waves, the far away screeching of seagulls, the tiptoeing of crabs on the muddy shoreline-. Valerius' Kenbunshoku reacted to such peace, bubbling in a dome which encompassed the entire island and far beyond. To exercise his spiritual sense beyond his already nigh-perfect physical ones, the man was focusing on the emotions of the people frolicking in the glowing homes. He found the life -joy, rage and sorrow- he had missed from the almost empty streets. Yet any emotional tune was always… neutered, smothered. People were always putting a cap on their emotion, limiting themselves on what they could think or feel. Many knew they were under Weil’s gaze, each of their whisper could be heard and bring quick judgment; those who didn’t, still felt uneasy eyes and avid ears peeking in every corner of their minds. No secret was permitted under the doctor domain, no feeling was allowed to run rampant. Vánagandr sighed. Only mere days following the event of and his duel with the Gaines Enfield, whispers of Dracula's name have been circulating all throughout the . Due to his presence throughout the sea being fickle over the decades, often wrecking havoc and then disappearing, many questioned whether this generation's current iteration of the notorious pirates with the moniker "King of the Undead" is actually the man of legend. But after coming out victorious against the one of the most powerful soldiers the navy has to offer, almost all doubt has faded. Feasting only days ago, Dracula found himself in no hurry to voyage to the next island. As such, he cruised through the sea in a small coffin-shaped raft. "That mongrel Alucard...How does he always manage to get into those situations when I'm not in control..." he thought, recalling that he left the body in the back at the tavern which was currently in the West Blue. "I need a way to put him down for good.." he contemplated just as his raft banged against the shore of the his next island. Without even any conscious effort, his murderous intents poured out of his physique. "Let the feast begin as leaped into the skies in order to get a bird's eye view of the scene. The killer instinct soaring above the city was clear as crystal, despite only the gleaming moons and stars offered a light of sort in the depth of the night. Unmistakably, the Imperator had found a monster lusting for death, carnage, and destruction, to transform the opulent Port Tantor in a blood-drenched graveyard. Was that foolishness? Perhaps so; only those or the powerful ones would dare to attack a territory under Midium’s protectorate, territories from which pirates seldom come out alive. Whether the beast above was a worthy foe or a mere animal to butcher, Vánagandr would find out soon. Vánagandr tendons, biceps, and triceps sprung at unison. His frame vanished out from his sitting post, transpiring right in front of the flying intruder. The middling stature and youthful face of the invader was somewhat surprising for the Black Wolf, before he recognized a dark stain spread between the boy’s forehead and right eye. That reminded him of a name, a stand-out among the bounty posters the Legion was used to collect: Dracula, the Cursed Pirate, a wielder of unholy powers. People like that couldn’t be treated with kid gloves. Vánagandr had to drive the undead from Port Tantor, as their clash would have easily annihilated the entire city. Beginning with an appetizer, the Imperator lodged a punch right on the vampire’s face. The power poured behind his blow commanded the air around to part ways, leaving a gaping wound in its place, so massive it towered over giants as if they were puny human specimens. Drove by irresistible pressure, a chunk of the atmosphere turned into a piston, so carefully guided by Vánagandr labors it had not spilled an ounce of force below, where it would have rippled through the city and caused excessive damages. Air molecules danced around the edges of the cannon, especially the striking part, colliding against each other in a mad, vortical dance; pressurized air blended with sparks of fissured hydrogen, resulting in an explosive mix. Vánagandr pushed the wall of wind and fire at the same lightning-fast pace of his thrust, with the intention of smashing it against the undead Pirate like a flyswatter crushes pesky bugs if he had somewhat failed to connect his fist against Dracula’s head. While he surveyed the area, a number of triggers signaled the ambush of another. Outside of the fact that Dracula was expecting an eventual attack, as he was in no way masking his presence, the sound of Vánagandr pushing against the floor of Port Tantor, the smell of the being approaching him, the literal sight of his arrival, and the foresight granted by his will. Dracula had no recollection of ever meeting the monstrosity that was approaching him. Why would he? Even if the two had met prior to this, there's no reason for Dracula to remember the personal info of those beneath him. As the armored man approached him, Dracula could not help but notice he was lacking in blood. "A cyborg?" he questioned mentally. Never having fought a cyborg before, Dracula grew somewhat curious as to what his opponent was capable of. Instinct had him dodging the attack in a multitude of ways, however his arrogance and domineering attitude forced him to stay still and endure the punch. As his fist connected with Dracula's face, in that moment, Dracula felt a sudden loss in energy. "This shit again..." his mind quickly deduced what he was dealing with. As result, Dracula was sent flying like a meteor piercing the atmosphere. The pyro-vacuum kept on path towards the outskirts of the island. Crashing onto the island, a massive crater emerged with him in the middle. Even among the most fearsome fighters, such a punch would prove to be fatal. The sheer magnitude of the punch itself could easily knock the head off the receiver's shoulders. Also, following the punch, inside the vacuum he'd be met with undeniable heat that could burn metal in an instant. On top of it all, Dracula at high speeds for kilometers towards, the impact alone would shatter every bone in the body. Nonetheless, at the nadir of the crater, amidst of all the rubble, rose the Undead King. While his clothes were nearly seared off, his body seemed unscathed and a despotic smile emerged on his face. Unlike most whose bodies are made organs, bones, muscles, blood, etc, Dracula's body is held together by his own soul energy. With power of soul at his disposal, overwhelmingly powerful strength would be required to punish him. Darkness shrouded his body, acting as pants and an open chest high collar flap jacket. "Let's see if you can truly entertain me..." Vánagandr didn’t lower his guard nor wasted any time since he had delivered his punch. Assessing the trajectory and timing of the falling vampire was like a piece of cake for the man; his master had equipped with some of the most effective sensors known to man from multifocal, magnetic tracing lenses to the equivalent of monostatic radars installed all over his body. Even in the blackest, bleakest skies and the most chaotic kind of environment, the Black Wolf would follow his prey with pinpoint precision. But he really didn’t need any help from science: that creature which had attacked the city oozed malice from every pore of his pubescent body, the unholy trace of hundreds of souls beaten and chained to quench Dracula’s thirst for power. Because of that dark force pulsing in his body, the vampire was kept together and well after receiving a blow which would reduce monsters in cooked porridges. Such barbaric distaste for human life equated the vampire to Weil’s in Vánagandr, two sociopathic beings to whom individual life had little more value than livestock. The Imperator’s programming and Weil’s terrific powers hindered Valerius from freeing the world from the scourge of his creator, but he would make to send the monster in front of him to the hell which spawned him. Vánagandr phased right behind Alucard, whilst the haze of debris and charred air still billowed over the freshly made bowl. He drew the Kingbreaker from his sheath, a single chain being where it was still connected through a thin chain. His broadsword was massive relating to his size, a lump of indestructible ore built to rip its way through walls, cities empires. To make it more lethal, he poured his Logia element in the weapon; embers, bright needles of smoldering matter begun to whirl around the blade, generating a shimmering wheel of brimstone which grew stronger at each revolution. The Kingbreaker’s black hue turned in fuming red for the immense heat, it became a spiral of burning death for those just standing in the nearby. It didn’t take long for the embers wind to become a small tornado, for its edges to gleam brighter than a lamp. If his opponent lorded over darkness to defend and, very probably, attack, Vánagandr’s answer was searing, hellish light. The Imperator swung his weapon: the glisten of Kingbreaker flashed in the dark. From the cracking edges of the broadsword, not one but multiple blades emerged, each crafted and guided by Valerius’ subtle whipping moves. They were red swords made of air and cinder, smoldering cyclones of piercing ember which bourgeoned and multiplied at every instant thanks to the Black Wolf constant boost of his Logia. Vánagandr’s typhoon soared sky high, rebuked the air which rippled in hot vapor streaming across the barren island; it engulfed, submerged the vampire in a storm of infernal cuts. Nothing would be spared, either through microscopic, hypersonic slashes or heat strong enough to melt down rocks, metal and flesh alike. Once again, Dracula showed no caution in regards to his opponent's fearsome attack. As Vánagandr descended behind the vampire, with brutish intent, Dracula gazed towards the civilization in which he has seemingly knocked away from. He could sense them, all of them, the souls of several hundred humans ripe for the taking. His stomach nearly growled in response. "Maybe a quick snack before some fun..." he contemplated. Souls to Dracula were like a fine cut of meat to starving carnivore; almost irresistible. All while he gazed towards his possible next meal, an attack that could possibly seal his fate descended upon him. Vánagandr’s versatility as a fighter offered little room for error nor ease. Without his full attention, it would be completely absurd to think he could avoid the fate that his opponent had laid out for him. However, "absurd" would be an accurate description of the power in which Dracula wielded. As spiraling embers cultivated around the large blade solemnly struck downward, the darkness that served as Dracula's current apparel seemingly extended from his collar directly above him with tremendous speeds. A barrier of black interrupted the possibly lethal attack that Vánagandr’s slash. Yet, despite the halted descent of the attack, neither the pyro-gale nor the actual legendary blade connected with the darkness. Between the darkness and Vánagandr’s attack, was a thin layer of invisible energy, that most in the New World were awfully familiar with, Busoshoku Haki. As stated, the darkness in which cloaks the vampire is the weaponization of his very own soul. When used in conjunction with his very own will, the result is as follows: by imbuing his will into the darkness, the black is capable of acting upon its own. Through the use of "observation", the darkness is capable foreseeing exactly where an attack will be directed and act accordingly, generating an adequate amount of darkness to shield Dracula. On top of this, through the use of "armament", a thin layer of Dracula's will sheets the darkness, aiding in the support against not only physical attacks but ones conjured by devil fruit and the will's of others. When all three are used in such a manner simultaneously, it produces a defense that Dracula refers to as the Ultimate Defence. The Shield of Dubán. As the attack connected with Dracula's shield, the ember wind scattered across the shield horizontally, not reaching its target below it. While the blade carried great weight and control behind, it too would be stopped. Nearly instantly following the plight, Dracula's hunger and killing intent grew once more as he dashed away from the outskirts and towards the civilization with augmenting speed. Every step surpassed the previous in regards to distance covered. Dracula was acting discreetly about his motive either, his soulust for that matter painted the narrative. In moments Dracula would arrive in the city where he could feast before assessing the threat that was his opponent. Clashing against the shield of Haki and unholy darkness, Kingbreaker stumbled a bit. Vánagandr felt a grinding force pressing against his arm, the natural recoil of the strike threatening to throw it off balance. He could sense it with his Kenbunshoku Haki: a power with a life of its own had halted its attack, it was a manifestation of primal hunger and abominable energy assuming mass and shape. Alucard had truly earned the moniker of monster, in raw strength yet even more so in attitude and appetites. But neither titles nor appellations mattered to Vánagandr; what did was the presence of an undead predator hell-bent on massacring a whole city. The Imperator had to stop him. Exercising a steadier grip on Kingbreaker, Vánagandr swung back with much more force and speed. One time, two times, many, many times more he slashed and whipped and trusted his broadsword, each of his time mowing the air with shrieks of pure power bolstered with amber whirlwinds. From every strike came a wound in the air, trailing with breakneck pace to the settlement where Alucard was leaping toward with reckless abandon, beating even that monster in a match of speed. Half of those attacks cut in a straight manner, aiming for the vampire’s flesh; the others took crooked paths, turning and waltzing midair in split seconds. The trajectory of those slashes would appear casual to an untrained eye, yet experts could recognize a not only a pattern in the blades of wind and fire, but a tapestry embroidered around the vampire as if he stepped in a pit of hungry vipers. Deadly embers wedged the tiny yet savage pirate once again, leaving him no way to escape from the heat that using his Haki and Devil Fruit strength again to burst out. An opportunity Vánagandr was not giving him. With a spring almost as fast as his transcendentally speedy swordplay, it jumped on the vampire’s trail, giving him no quarter nor room for error. The same power which had suffused the blade begin surrounding his entire body; smoldering ashes pulsed and whirled around his frame, shrouding it in red which turned in even brighter, and more stupendously hot, orange. The cyborg became the epicenter of a firestorm, a living bonfire melting hectares of grounds around him, already in the process of turning into prairies of glass. Alongside with sheer heat, Vánagandr’s cloak of embers discharged an imaginable amount of kinetic energy with the constant collisions and breakdowns of its particles, a fuel which carried an immense boost to each of the cyborg’s steps. Bringing thunderous sounds and tremors worthy of earthquakes through his path, Vánagandr reached Alucard while the latter was still dealing with the tangles of flaring blades. The Imperator howled; his armor reacquired a black shape, due not to a diminished usage of his Logia powers, but the application of thick Busoshoku Haki. Given how those walls of darkness were made of a combination of Haki and Devil Fruit power, only a power arising from the same sources was guaranteed to pierce through it, unless Vánagandr had to turn the fight in a catastrophic exercise of strength. Vánagandr's will flowed on his skin like liquid paint, wiggling for the pulsing embers which still radiated in copious amounts. Knowing precisely where to strike thanks to his senses and Haki, the cyborg swung his blade with a feint and his other arm in a clawing motion. A drilling flare followed his blow, consuming both of the black-clad monsters in an explosion of such magnitude it overpowered the night itself. Blares came from the City of Port Tantor, faint sounds from the combatant's perspective, yet the penetrated through every angle of the quiet city: the alarms were ringing. Category:Role-Plays